


and if you're not made for me, why did we fall in love

by Buttercup_Bee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Jon Snow is King in the North, Love Triangles, Male Daenerys Targaryen, Other, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26569801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_Bee/pseuds/Buttercup_Bee
Summary: Raven's arrive with news of Daemon Targaryen's arrival in Dragonstone. The game takes a turn for the worst when enemies from all sides intend on taking the North - and the undead prepares to march South.Sansa declares herself a Warden and envoy, and is sent to the Father of Dragons in the hopes of attaining dragonglass, and his help. Far more comes from their meeting than either had bargained for.HIATUS until further notice
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 71
Kudos: 150





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, Jon and Sansa do have mutual feelings neither of them are willing to acknowledge, and I have decided to make Daenerys male. My reasoning being I have a hard time with Daenerys in general due to the fandom wars, and I feel this sort of makes her/him a separate entity I can experiment with without too much backlash (I am afraid, always). Keep in mind which relationship is tagged first, and know if you think this'll have a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention. 
> 
> Just prepare for a lot of angst, and a shit load of yearning. ALSO please have patience, and keep an open mind!

Sansa admits, perhaps she could have gone about the whole situation another way. Suggested they send an envoy that did not start Jon along a warpath. However, Sansa can’t send those who do not know the game and it’s intricacies. Especially with a foreign invader involved. Sansa would be sending one of her people to their death.

Stressing her intertwined fingers, Sansa thinks on what to say to put her King at ease. Sadly, nothing comes to mind. Nothing that will immediately assuage his upset, that is. She would have to play this by ear, much to her disdain. 

She’s never seen him so disturbed, not since the Battle for Winterfell.

Jon fumes, crowding the chamber from one end to another, the way a wolf would caged. Sansa stands at the precipice, near the entrance. Her hands clasped to the front of her, the tilt of her head allowing the autumn gold of her curls to fall over her shoulders, tickling both her elbows and forearms. 

He pauses, meets her gaze, and riles up once again - muttering unkind gestures under his breath. Sansa sighs, having stood there for some time waiting for him to calm down. 

She realizes she cannot wait for him to do so, when he stomps about like a petulant child; even if it is understandable. 

With a deep sigh, she steps forward, taking his arm and pulling him to face her. He huffs, surprised by her presence. Surely, not expecting her to intervene during an episode of chagrin. Sansa speaks before he can defend his actions. 

“You’re acting like a child.” Sansa somehow twists her tone into a soothing song, Jon frowning. “I know you worry, I know it is dangerous, and I know what lies ahead if I am to misstep. But we serve the North, and our realm stands to be destroyed by the very threat you claim will destroy us all.”

Jon stills, eyes softening under her hard stare, saying “I promised to protect you,” He averts his gaze to the hearth, the crackling of flame and wood as loud as thunder, intense in a way that encourages the dangerous mood between the two of them. “I promised I would not let those who would hurt you to do so again; going that far South puts you in grave danger.” He grieves his oath, refusing to meet her half-way when she bears down on him. 

It’s a gentle embrace, one meant to ease him. Sansa knows it doesn’t, his back straight and his arms tense. 

“If you go, we risk our King. You said it yourself, Dragonstone is host to dragonglass, and Daemon Targaryen has three, large dragons. We could stand to use such beasts in the wars to come.”

Jon shakes his head, surprise melding something akin to cheer at the crease of his eyes. “The last we spoke of this, you disagreed. Said the risk was not worth the outcome,” Jon finally returns to her, steel meeting ice. “Not after what happened with the last Targaryen King.” 

Sansa takes his hand, holds it between both of her own, and pulls it close. “It was pride, if I am to be truthful. Pride and fear.” Her chest tightens as she continues. “I am afraid to lose the North, we’ve gone through so much for it to be taken from us again. I was unwilling to risk it.”

He contemplates her words, nodding. “I know, but to send you -”

“Is the only way we can ensure the safety of Winterfell and our people.” Sansa affirms. “The lives of our countrymen outweigh the wants of your honor, and your wish to keep it.”

The rest of their time is kept to a brittle emptiness, Jon unwilling to argue further, Sansa refusing to bring it back to the forefront; both acknowledging there was no more to discuss. 

The ink had set itself in stone, and Sansa would continue it’s spread.

* * *

Moira, her handmaid, is readying her for her departure, finishing up what is left to be done with Sansa’s hair. Delicate, interwoven plait’s rest upon Sansa’s shoulders, the fire kissed tresses bright against the grey riding cloak she adorns, upon layers of snow cotton and hints of green nestled throughout the fabrics. 

The working woman sighs, taking a step back to admire her work. “You look a sight, m’lady.” A gentle smile graces Sansa’s lips as she tugs at the fur trimmed sleeves, finger nails catching at the trout she had sewn into the seams. 

“That she does.” 

Sansa inwardly cringes, steeling her expression towards a tight calm as she turns. Littlefinger flits into a smirk, his facial hair curling with the slither of his lips. 

In the kingdoms of beasts, baring one’s teeth meant to show aggression. To bow another into submission. Amongst humankind, it is a burden of kindness or deception - and yet from him, Sansa senses it is a threat meant to cower her. 

It always has been, amidst the game of thrones, and she holds back the shiver that threatens to climb her spine. Sometimes, she swears he means to tear her throat out with such a demeaning grin, though she can never prove it, only listen to the churn of her gut. 

Moira, unnerved, bows his direction. Sansa takes her forearm, gentle and firm and warning all at once. 

“Leave us, Moira, if you’ll please.” Sansa doesn’t want to be alone with him. However, her wants matter less than the safety of her hand maiden and friend, and the woman skitters out slowly, waiting, as if deeming whether or not she should. 

He’s impatient, fingers stretching callously, “I believe your Lady asked you to leave.” Petyr hums, his gaze poised on the small brunette, who casts one last glance at Sansa before exiting the room. 

It’s a long moment before Sansa speaks, because despite all her time with the man, he is still conniving and dangerous and very much a player in the game. His intentions, although blatant to her, still have ulterior motives she cannot decipher. 

At least when it comes to her. Sansa knows he desires her, much to her disgust, that does not mean she understands it. Nor why or how he thinks he will achieve in gaining her affections; it’s discerning, truly, for she can see him upon a throne made of ash, but she is never at his side. Sansa wonders, faintly, how he intends to orchestrate such a future.

It’s a game of cat and mouse, and for now, she is the mouse. Much to her chagrin. She is still his student, after all, and she has much to learn yet.

“Petyr,” Sansa moves, keeps her stature tall and straight, imposing if she can manage it, “what is it you need?” she halts at her desk, resting a hand on the dark oak. Letters from Northen houses, as well as those from the Eryie and Riverlands lay cold and stacked in neat piles. 

Many with concerns of harvest, of the oncoming winter winds, and few with information on Cersei. Only one had described the Targaryen invaders' arrival, sent from house Tyrell - as it seems her bonds to Margaery had held true, and the once Queen of the Seven Kingdoms risked sending Sansa the raven herself. 

It’s the only letter that lies open still, Sansa having read it more than once the night before the council. Littlefinger bristles, hands clasped at his abdomen. “I must ask, my lady, why am I being left in Winterfell?” 

She thought he’d have asked sooner. 

Quirking a brow, Sansa hums musingly, “It was a request made by the lords of the Eryie,” Petyr’s jaw clenches, she catches the muscle tense the second it happens. “Who am I to deprive Lord Hardying of his eyes and ears?”

He knows the game she is playing, can sense the chase she is leading, and Sansa is far more knowledgeable about the gratification he seethes in when she does so. More than she is comfortable with. But it keeps him placnnt, if that’s the word for it, or perhaps it simply maintains his interests on her, and not Jon nor her people. At least a little.

Jon is in a precarious position with Littlefinger still in Winterfell, and she ensures his food is tasted before every serving, his guards remain at his door, and keeps tabs on all of the Mockingbirds' little spies. Mayhaps he intends for her to find them, if not, they have done a terrible job in keeping hidden. 

Petyr moves towards her, eyes narrowed. “Since when has Lord Hardying ruled your decisions?” 

“Since he rode into battle for Winterfell.” 

Her tone is calm, everlasting, and it bothers him. She can tell by the way he stiffens, his posture practiced and cold. 

A sly, curvaceous smirk curls at his thin lips. “He rode into battle for you, Sansa.” She hates the way he says her name, despises the way it entwines around his tongue, how it leaves his mouth endearingly and dangerously. 

Her stomach curls and bile rises, her heart quickens and she remembers, time and time again; her strength resides within the walls of Winterfell. That she is home. No monster will touch her, not as long as she has a say in her domain. 

Intent, she lifts a brow. “Oh?” Sansa settles on remaining at her desk, eyeing the absence of her luggage. She would like to fiddle with the fabric of her gowns, the thick cotton and deep gray of her woolen skirts. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Do not feign ignorance, it does not befit the lady of Winterfell.” 

“As you said before, I am terrible at lying, Lord Baelish.” Coyly, she smiles. Daintily flicking her hand upwards, as if showing a display of all the horrid lies she could not pass. 

If only he knew. She’s a slow learner, it’s true, but she learns. He is blinded by her beauty, her resemblance to her mother, and does not quicken to her fables. As he once entailed, many a man will drown in her eyes, and he was her first victim. 

Too drawn to the past, still living in it, the poor sod. 

A knock at the door, and before she murmurs her acceptance for the newcomer, Jon strides in. His lithe form massive in the furs she had sewn for him. His attention is immediately on Petyr, glowering, a growl ticking at his lips. 

Ghost is not far behind, trotting past him, and settling at Sansa’s side. Ears pointed, an alert stature as if ready to pounce, the great beast spares no kindness for Petyr. Teeth bared and a deep growl riveting through the chamber. 

There is a distant fear in the Mockingbird’s eyes, and he is quick to take a step back under Ghost’s gaze. 

“Leave,” Jon commands, his palm tight around the pommel of his sword. “Before I make you.” 

Petyr was smart enough to know when the odds were stacked against him, and looks to Sansa before bowing in Jon's direction. “Of course, your Grace.” 

He is gone without another word, and Sansa finally breathes, twisting to scratch behind Ghost’s ear. He keens, bound to her as he nuzzles his head against her chest. 

“I came as soon as Moira told me.” Jon releases the pommel and examines Sansa, searching for any sign of Petyr’s touch. 

“She is a good woman.” Sansa says happily, grateful to the woman she had enlisted. Sansa would have to find a way to repay her - a new cloak or gown, she thinks. Jon hums noncommittedly, still scrutinizing her body. Sighing, she tilts her head. “He didn’t touch me, Jon. He simply wanted to know why he was not accompanying me to Dragonstone.”

For a long moment he does not move, then steps forward, bringing her into a hug. “You promise?” He hinders, his voice bridged between worry and anger. 

“I promise.”

Minutes pass, and when he lets go, he frowns. A common expression for Jon, something that has not changed before their lives went to shit, and Sansa is somehow beholden to it. His large hands rest at her shoulder, steel colored hue bent on resolve. 

Sansa is the first to break the silence. “It is time I leave, Jon. Our men are waiting.” 

Furrowing his brow, Jon nods. “I suppose it is.” In the depths of his baritone, a dreadful sorrow lies in wake, and it makes Sansa’s heart ache.

She wishes she could make it better, capture his tragedy of a soul, and bottle it up. But it is what makes him human still, and she could never hold that against him. Not after all he has been through, the loss that stimulates their bond. 

And so, in releasing her, he leaves her to the dragons, lions, and krakens alone. With no shield but her wit and courtesy - and she knows, oh so very well, he would be that shield if she let him.

“Let us be on our way, then.”


	2. Daemon I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the encouragement and lovely comments! It makes my heart flutter when I read them! I will share face claims soon, as requested by a commenter. Thank you all again, I definitely didn't expect this much reception!

Dragonstone is not what he expected. 

The island is dreary, isolated, and cold. He had expected something akin to Essos, the grandeur of warm sun, a salty breeze to whisk in his hair. The mention of an island always, in his mind's eye, meant heat. 

This is not heat. There is no sun, no expanse wherein he could enjoy the light he had grown in. Still, it is a place of dragons. Where Aegon began his conquest, and dragons arose from ash. He intended to do the same. Homecoming or not, he had his goal set on the Iron throne, and therefore the people of Westeros. 

So he is not surprised, as he had been with Dragonstone, when a priestess of self proclaimed light and fire arrives unannounced. 

The throne room is shadowed in grey, flashes of lighting flutter the chamber in brief blinks, followed by bellowing thunder - near as loud and ferocious as his children. Faintly, he wonders if they soar, even in weather such as this. 

Daemon makes sure not to place himself upon Dragonstones throne, instead standing tall furthest from it. A point to be made, he thinks, that he will not preside over any throne but the Iron throne. 

Tyrion stands at his right, a goblet of wine in hand, as always. And Ser Barriston a foot behind, to his left. Behind him, in the far corner is Messandei, the young woman shielded by Grey Worm under Daemon’s command. 

Ever since the masked assassins intended his death in order of retribution, he had been wary to leave his dear friend unattended, fearful she might be attacked. Grey Worm assured him no such thing would happen again, but Daemon has never been one for superstition of absolute safety. 

Certainty in one’s protection is merely a lack in hindsight, and frankly, ignorant. Daemon has sworn to himself not to make the same mistake again, less it cost him the lives of those who matter most.

When the priestess enters, he pulls his hands behind his back, shoulders brought in a taut line. She is tall, crimson enveloping her person; vibrant against her umber-black complexion. It reminds him of twilight, of reds and golds melding into the night sky. 

And atop her head lied a circlet of sable and scarlet. However, she adorned no tresses he was accustomed to on a woman, instead favoring a neat, tight cut against her scalp - the curls dense. 

Full lips, eyes dripping in onyx, she smiles. Bows too, a courteous gesture from a woman he has never met. Though it does please him. 

When she arises, Daemon speaks. “I must admit, only recently have I heard of this worship of yours...of this R’hllor.” Her gaze is vivid, full in ambition and an unsettling certainty he has not seen in some time. Not since his sister, aspiration consuming, leaving nothing but a husk. 

The memory serves to dampen his mood, and he frowns. 

“I am a priestess of light, your Grace,” She explains; her voice deep, melodic, an allusion of grave pride. “And you,” she smirks, “are fire made flesh.”

Daemon quirks a brow, bemused. It’s almost enough to take his mind off Viserra. “And what makes you think that, may I ask?” 

“You walked through flame untouched, birthed beings that were thought long since dead, have freed those who would be bound by chains all their life, and a destiny yet to fulfill.” Tyrion eyes her, suspicious of the strange woman, and takes a hefty gulp of his drink. “I have seen it in the flames, your Grace, of you charging into battle atop your dragon, sword lit aflame.”

Tyrion chuckles, Daemon turning to him in minor interest. They meet eye to eye, and Daemon nods, a silent grant that he may speak freely. 

And so the dwarf does. “Stannis Baratheon had one of your devout followers,” he muses, swirling his goblet in show. “From what I hear, he was the chosen one. Now he is dead.”

  
Narrowing his gaze, Daemon returns his attention to the priestess. “That does not sound reassuring.” he grounds out.

She poises herself, complexion mirroring that of ebony - no expression, not a flicker of confusion or upset. Rather, she raises her head, defiant. There it is again, Daemon thinks, that pride lit alight. 

“Yes, Melisandre of Asshai.” So poignant, her lips slip into a tight line, a steady glare aimed upon Tyrion for a split second. “The priestess believed all of what the flame whispered, never waiting for the fates to unravel, to gaze upon the true message that the Lord of Light had offered.”

“And you do?” Daemon says. 

She smiles something vicious. “I do,” her skirts flutter as she takes one step forward, then another. Halting when both unsullied and dothraki alike ready their weapons; Ser Barriston now at his side, fist at the hilt of his blade. Daemon lifts a hand, a gesture in keeping them in line. When he looks at her again, she has come to stand just a foot from him. “I have waited a century for the flames to speak to me the truth, to fully understand our Lord of Light and his plans for our kind. Every image, every whisper, all different from the last. Until now.”

“And these flames of yours, they ‘whisper’ of me?” Daemon admits, it is quite fascinating to be at the receiving end of another’s beliefs. That he, to them, is the end all be all. However, it is not ideal, and he has no interest in living up to what his ancestors once believed themselves to be. Gods of those beneath them. 

He is a man, yes he may have dragons and armies, but still just a man. He bleeds as anyone else would. 

The priestess nods, her eyes somehow, far more golden than black now that he had the chance to see them so close. And they sang of wonder and admiration. “Yes, you are. The flames only show you, time and time again, for the past two years - it is consistent.” 

Tyrion scoffs, rolling his eyes. “And did your fire priestess not say the same of Stannis?”

“She did, and was intent on ignoring all else.” A wavering breath, and she says “That is not to say there are others, your Grace, that will save Westeros. But you are indeed meant for it, a dragon's head to bring the Lord's light down upon those who would threaten the innocent.”

  
Intrigued, Daemon asks “There are others?” 

“The dragon has three heads.” 

At this, he startles. His composure quivers, heart threatening to beat out of his chest upon hearing her words. And in his mind's eye, the House of the Undying is breathed back to life, and the horror of all that it had shown him rests in his bones. The weight heavy and unyielding.

A voice, deep inside him, repeats the priestess. A tall, slender man, with tresses the color of a waiting storm and sea foam. And eyes amethysts glinting off a small babe cradled in his arms, curls of white atop his head. 

Daemon furrows, biting the inside of his cheek. His sword and shield leaning near his ear. “Are you alright, your Grace?” 

He says nothing, cannot even nod to ease Ser Barriston. Though he does consider the servant of light, eases into the visage of her. The idea that she might know more than he and what he witnessed, what he heard. The riddles and mismatched pieces to a story that he does not understand, that have never been whole.

That she might have answers, it all but made him desperate. He has spent years since then attempting to do just that, and has found nothing. Has made no sense of it all, as it drives him into a wall again, again, and again. He knew, deep down, the House of the Undying had told him of all that he needed to know. 

It just so happened to occur in no logical sense, let alone in a way he could understand. 

“I never asked your name,” Daemon returns his attention back to her, a small quirk to his lips. 

“Akosua of Asshai,” She bows her head, looks up to him, and smiles. “I take it that you would accept my help?”

“Is that what you offer?”

“Yes, and so much more. I am the Lord of Light’s seer, his voice, and I intend to decipher all he has to say for you.”

Daemon sighs, clenching his jaw afterwards. He weighs the dangers of what he could possibly gain from this. And it is as if she can smell the concern wafting from him, and grows close enough that he has not a chance to back away; her hands clasp his own, comforting and warm. So very warm.

“A witch stole all that you adored. Your sister, and an unborn child.” He chokes, feeling as if a rock has been lodged deep within his throat. Only Jorah knew of those hopes, of those dreams. His face contorts into a deep, warry frown. “There are dangers of death and undeath, of pale blue eyes, endless ice, and misery. You must burn it away. Only then may you find your breath again, only then may you discover home.”

There is an intense silence within the throne chamber, not a soul breathes, let alone move. A gaping tear has penetrated his armor, wistful wishes for someone he may love, and loves him back. A home filled with children, of lemon tree’s and a red door.

It unsettles him. He has pushed those wanton desires to the furthest depths of his mind, his only objective becoming the Iron Throne. 

He fights with himself, torn between giving in to what she promises, and the painful thought of sending away the only chance he has left - for the safety of his claim, of the wars to come. He does not know her, nor her kind. And yet…

“Very well,” Foolish, he thinks, so very foolish indeed. “Tyrion, find her a suitable room, if you’d please.” This will kill him, he knows. Perhaps not truly, but his gut twists, and he fears his soul may be stolen away, and his heart made black and unfeeling. 

Tyrion opens his mouth to dispute his decision, only to be met with a warning of Daemon persecuting stare. 

“Right this way, priestess.”

In the distance, it is not thunder that clashes against stone, it is the bellowing of his children, dangerous and vicious. 

They are discontent, and he is certain of why.

* * *

“I sent a letter North.” 

The admittance sends Daemon into a sigh, a grievance and tired droop of his mouth. “I told you to wait, Tyrion. I wished to gather houses in my favor that consider the North as allies, before attempting contact.” 

The stout man slouches, all the while Lord Varys watches in consideration. Daemon waits for a reply, leaning forward, hands bracing the war table in tandem to the pregnant pause, and the crackling of the hearth. 

“I made the right choice,” Tyrion declares, meeting his eye without hesitation. “I know Jon Snow, he’s a good man. An honorable man.” A pause and he adds, “and I happened to wed the key to the North, Sansa Stark. Unconsummated of course, but I know her as I do any ally.”

Daemon scoffs, fingers pressed until white. “My brother was, as I am told, honorable. Yet he stole and raped a woman, and died for it.” Varys waits, Daemon knows he schemes to interject in his favor soon enough. Though he is never certain what he thinks, nor what he plans. “And may I remind you that woman was Lyanna Stark. I doubt the house will listen let alone travel this far South. Distrust is far more potent than faith.”

Tyrion smirks, knowledge hidden behind the dusting of lavender and emerald that his stare holds. “An envoy has already been sent.” 

Daemon stills, and even Varys' posture shifts beneath the news. Neither expecting the outcome. Tyrion takes a smug sip of his wine, before punctuating at last, “Sansa Stark is on a ship as we speak.” 

“And when were you planning to inform me of this?” 

“I only received the letter today, and we had a visitor, remember?”

Another moment passes before Varys steps forth, closer to the two of them. As if his entrance needed and demanded attention. “If it is Sansa that comes to Dragonstone, we are in luck. She is a fickle little thing, as scared of her own shadow as she is of the sun.”

Daemon shifts, and before he can speak his hand does. “Perhaps that is what you saw, but I was wed to her, shared a room with her. You act as if she did not survive Kings Landing - your Grace, you would do well not to underestimate her.” 

Interesting, such different perspectives from the both of them. He wonders what this meeting will attain, a knot gathering in his shoulders in mild stress. He disliked not knowing his adversaries. 

“So is she weak or of her own mind?” Daemon challenges, gathering the both of them in his probing, though arduous scrutiny. 

Varys gapes, unable to answer, his commentary stilled by the dwarf. It seems he was unaware of the act the girl had used to survive. Perhaps she’d been a danger the whole time, and his own spy could not see it?

What a waste.

Tyrion sets his goblet down, determined to explain. “Sansa Stark, as I am aware, gathered an army and took back Winterfell with Jon Snow at her side.” Even he is surprised as he speaks, the news having taken him unaware as well. “Jon Snow has made her his hand, and the people adore her. If it is not wit they admire, it is her kindness. She never let on in the Capital, but she’s beginning to. Lady Sansa is intelligent, enough so to pledge allegiance to protect what she has. I assure you, she will bend the knee.”

He knew what to say to put Daemon at ease, and the King knew it. The tension must have been clear between his stoic expression and the strain of his jaw. 

“And why is that?” The dragon tilts his head, “Do you know her so well you know her mind?”

Tyrion shakes his head. “I would never claim to know her mind, but she has been through a great deal. Her family is dead, all but her bastard brother. I am certain she will protect the home she has finally reclaimed.” He turns, eyes glazed in thought. “‘Family, Duty, Honor’, that is her mother’s words. She will bow to her King.”

Absorbing the newfound information, Daemon nods. 

“Then let us prepare to meet with the North’s envoy, I am eager to meet this Sansa Stark.”


	3. Sansa I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too happy with this chapter, something feels off, but I wanted to get a chapter out for you all! Thank you for being so patient - not to mention all the love and comments! I appreciate that so much you guys seriously have no idea!
> 
> Edit: I totally forgot I wanted to share a playlist I made for the fic! Here it is! https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLuM8vwB33vylytiv3Squ-JbLqDjDCFTsY
> 
> Not to mention the fancast I've made for the characters, which will be posted with the next chapter~

“Lady Sansa, his Grace is appreciative of your embark to Dragonstone,” Sansa eyes the dwarf with masked suspicion. “These are difficult times, as you well know, and your loyalty will not go unnoticed.” 

It’s almost mocking, his smile, and the gleam in his eyes say more than he could ever hope to express. He had won, in his own opinion, had won the trust of what he thought had been an impossible task. Sansa can read it in the way he stands, his posture gallant as it had been after the battle at Black-Water bay. 

She itches to correct him, to lay claim that it was of no loyalty towards their forign King that sent her across Westeros, but Winterfell and her people. And the deeper part, the Northern blood that thrums in her veins, shouts that she knows no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark. 

Instead, she bows her head, simpers, and proffers a gentle stare that soothes Tyrion. Somehow, her charade is already in play, and to think he was a player easily sought after. It’s then, Sansa realizes, that he does not see a Lady of Winterfell, nor a woman who led a battle for the North. 

No, he sees a child that had been beaten half bloody, half bruised. A girl held under the tyrannical thumb of house Lannister, and those who would see her hurt. Perhaps he saw her intelligence, perhaps he is acting as well, and there is a great chance that he is leaning on the fact they were once allies - two standing against the monsters who would see them kneel. 

He had been her husband after all. He may still feel she must oblige the title, or even thinks they are friends after all that has happened. True souls that have squandered under power, not above it. 

Realistically, without getting into her own head as she does when she is nervous, she acknowledges that he is being kind. In his own way, that is who she had known, that is who stands before her. Affection simmering just above the surface, and behind him those who have surrendered their swords to fight for a King she has never seen nor heard. 

At that moment, she assumes it is a warning of trial. Fail, and she will lose far faster than she could take it back. 

Loyalty, it rolls over the back of her mind, and slowly envelopes her tongue. “I am sure I will soon put such a powerful statement to good use.” Sansa smiles with an endearing tilt of the head. 

The imp, he smiles, a glimmer of pride in his complexion. “Well, then you will take no issue in his request to leave all weaponry to our soldiers, until we have come to an agreement.” 

Sansa’s heart quickens, and she is immediately alert to all those who surround her. Tall, dark men with spears and curved swords and hair the length of her own. She is no battlemaster, let alone a swordsman, and she scorns herself for not taking these obvious killers into account the moment she arrived. Sansa has no means of protection beyond her mind and her sworn shield. 

Brienne steps forward, a protective defiance in shoulders, the lift of her head. She stands as tall as she can, and Sansa notes that she is just as tall as the forign men, if not taller. Gripping the pommel of her sword, Brienne warns “That is not possible. I owe my Lady an oath, and I will not relinquish my means to protect her to satisfy a King we have not met.”

The soldiers under the Dragon's law step forward, ready to draw, as does Brienne. Tyrion is quick, shocked as he speaks a language Sansa is unfamiliar with. A moment passes, looks of aggression pass until the men step back. 

Tyrion's mouth thins, and when he speaks Sansa loosens her hand from the skirts of her gown, unknowing she had done it in the first place. 

“Very well, your shield may keep her means of ‘protection’. The rest however is necessary.” 

Sansa sighs under her breath. “If it is a demand, so be it.” Turning to her Northern soldiers, she gives a hesitant frown, before nodding their way. “Give the gentleman your swords, so we may continue.”

They do so, but only after a long moment of decision. Sansa is grateful for it. 

* * *

The ceiling towers high above, far more than that of the Red Keeps, and Sansa finds no comfort in the fact. However, it’s solemn compared to the Southron keep, dark and willowy, much like Winterfell. No vibrant silks or lace, frilled and overdone. There are no vines covered in crimson flowers, no golden candles or golden lions.

It is simplistic in it’s design, as if there was nothing to hide but the fact that a new ruler now presided within Dragonstone. 

In that, she could find a semblance of familiarity, and the depictions of burnt stone and Targaryen tapestry is just like the stories Nan would tell her. Red and black tapestries seep down the walls, for the home of Dragons had been returned to its rightful owners. 

The displeasure of the Dothraki - as Tyrion had commended them for their brutality, and commitment to Daemon Targaryen - fell into step behind her. As if searching for the right moment to pinch at her gown, and spear her through her chest. It’d been the same with the Lannister guard, eyeing her with suspicion and hatred. 

Sansa slinks closer to Brienne, an attempt to hide her fear with her towering height. As if they could not see her, they could not tell she quivered beneath the cotton and wool and furs she adorned. 

Brienne notices though, she always does, has memorized the ticks and turns of her anxiety. She had done so since Sansa had been found in the Eyrie by the shining knight - her own knight - and a flutter tickles at her chest. 

Sworn shield and all, Brienne walked by her side, and made certain that no other could sense the apprehension that swathed off her in heavy, jagged streamlets. 

They arrive upon two large doors, mun ebony in color, sleek despite their age. Sansa is surprised, having lost count of her steps, too focused on the cold steel beside her. Glancing upwards, she gulps. 

Tyrion steps to the side, a crooked smirk claiming his complexion as he fails in his effort to lull whatever regret she may have. Sansa merely gauges the failure, and pulls her shoulders back, lifts her head as claumerous groans wane from the doors. 

She is greeted with a great expanse of grey and black, pillars that wear the Targaryen insignia, and a line of Dotheraki - and black clad warriors she does not recognize - which seems to be a persistent problem. 

No recognition in the boons this Targaryen King has gained. Her eyes roam the chamber, counting each and every body, before her attention lands on a man at the center of it all. 

Her first thought, when she meets his gaze, is power. It keeps her there, present, and does not let her go. Does not let her waver.

It nestles in his piercing glare, so much so Sansa feels a child again. Seeing royalty for the first time, it had left her awe struck. A Targaryen draped in the Dragon's house colors, standing tall and beautiful and vividly real. Though she is quick to remind herself of beauty and the depths of which it hides the ugly. So she ignores it, a centered glower persistent in her own study of the man. 

Behind the broad shoulders of Daemon Targaryen (as she assumes it must be him) is a man, clad in gold and white cloak and a woman; tall and sheathed in crimson. 

It is then, Sansa registers that he does not sit on Dragonstones throne. He stands at the bottom of the steps, and a woman, endearing despite Sansa having never held a conversation with her, proudly announces her King. 

“You stand in the presence of Daemon Stormborn of house Targaryen,” she begins, voice smooth as silk, “rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful King of the Andals, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Father of Dragons, the Khal of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.”

Her first thought is dower, the titles ever long and presumed to be met with respect. That is not what she senses, no, she experiences an aching recall to Joffrey, and all his titles. To Cersei, and hers. To them all, the den of Lions and thorned flowers.

And so, with much concealed chagrin, she remembers herself. Remembers that she is a Wolf, that she was raised with Lions and Snakes and Mockingbirds. That nothing is as it seems, and that he is just another pretty image likely hiding something wicked. 

A sickly sweet smile graces her rose lit mouth, eyes gleaming as she curtsies deeply. So many titles, she thinks, so many titles and so little awareness of his own obsession. It will be easy to work with that, to play into his grandeur. 

She did it with Joffrey, she’d done it with Harry and Petyr, she can do it with him. 

Rising, she pleats her skirts, awaiting for him to speak. Instead, he looks to Brienne, waiting. 

Gaping, if only for a second, she follows through without need of Sansa’s encouragement. “Here stands Sansa of house Stark, Warden and protector of the North and the Trident, Lady of Winterfell and the Riverlands, Hand to the King in the North, Jon Snow.”

Daemon lifts a brow, intrigued. He doesn’t try to subdue his reaction, nor does he take the time to placate it correctly. It is odd, she thinks, that he seemingly does not wear a mask and she can’t help but wonder if Tyrion knows this too, or is blindsided somehow. It is dangerous in a game such as this, to not do so.

A moment passes, and Sansa decides to speak, as she assumes he is giving her the breadth of time to do so. Uncommon in his breed - blue blood and all. 

“Thank you for granting us entrance, your Grace,” Sansa says, voice enticingly smooth, as if it were velvet. “I am pleased to see the rumors hold true.” 

His attention is immediately garnished and she flushes, but the outcome is not as planned. He doesn’t confide in his fantasies or wonderment, as much as Joffrey or perhaps Petyr would have. Rather he purses his lips a moment, and brings his hands to clasp around his back. 

“Rumors? I doubt any of them are true here in Westeros.” He states. “None spoke of truth in Essos.”

Sansa is hit with his voice, the deep timber traveling down the length of her spine. She is quick to ignore the sensation, swats it away the second she senses it. 

Daemon Targaryen tilts his head, silver hair threaded and glittering under what little sunlight prickles down into the chamber. Crowning him, holding him securely in it’s light. “I assume the reason you have traveled so far, is to bend the knee my Lady?”

He isn’t tiptoeing around his intentions, he’s blunt without any strategy in hand, and it reminds her of Jon in a way. 

Sansa does not smile anymore, though retains the sweetness in her expression. “Sadly, your Grace, no.” 

It’s as if the chamber itself shrivels up, stone cold and blanketed in caution. Tyrion’s face is a cruel mix of adoration and fright. In the quick glimpse she had captured, she knew he had expected something else. Something more forgiving and small. 

“No?” Daemon questions. Feeling the word around his tongue, he repeats “No.” Bemusement perks up this time, tonality shifting without premise. 

Ignoring the blood thrumming in her ears, she steps forward. “I apologize,” She preserves the fear for another time, bottles it up and tucks it away like a secret, hidden away in the depths of her mind. “I have not come to bend the knee, the North already has a King, we have no need for another.” 

Lifting a brow in what she can only assume is mock gaiety, he retreats his attentions from herself to his Hand, who has moved half-way across the chamber. There is a knowing look in his eyes, the way they narrow down on Tyrion is an endeavour he takes his time to nourish. 

And then, with a smirk, Daemon centers in on Sansa again, this time with forthright indignation. Sansa can see it now, the correlations with his crown and unmoving deliverance in his belief that he is to be worshipped, to be placed upon a mountain and gifted the morality of those beneath him. 

Sansa, beside herself, knows she is in for a handful. 

“You have seen my army, my dragons,” He declares, “and yet you have the courage to say no?” 

At this she raises her chin once more, of course there had been irritation in his voice. But there was no anger, no fury made fire as she had expected. No, there had only been acceptance, and he met Tyrion again with something akin to hilarity. 

Her speculations have been swung back and forth, and it worries her she cannot pin him into a specific type of cowardice. It had been easy enough with everyone else. 

He waits for her to speak, she realizes, and Sansa replies “I have not had the pleasure of witnessing your dragons, your Grace,” Sansa begins, her voice a lilit of wonder, a display that she had indeed been excited to see a long lost treasure. It certainly was not the case, but he didn’t need to know that. “I have come to strike a bargain, if you might listen?”

Daemon twists with the thought, her proffer coating him in a curious shine. “You may.” 

“An enemy lies beyond the Wall, one that does not die by simple steel or iron,” Sansa thinks on what Jon had told her of the dead, furthering her commentary, “Dragonstone is known to host dragonglass. It is the only known material other than Valyerian steel that can kill the dead.” 

Both his eyebrows raise up, and even Sansa can see she sounds crazy. “The dead?” farcical coats his timber. 

“Regardless if you choose to believe what I say, trade with the Northernmost country will benefit both your crown and my people.” 

“And you said she would kneel,” Daemon snarks towards Tyrion, who opens his mouth to speak, and is ignored instantaneously. “I have not come to Westeros to rule five kingdoms, Lady Stark, I have come to reclaim my birthright, and that birthright is the North and Trident.” 

Sansa’s stomach caves, in response she attempts to make herself taller, prideful. “I promised those under our King’s rule we would be free, and I have no intention of breaking that promise. What I offer is supplies, men, and a companionship between our nations in exchange for dragonglass.” At this Sansa walks towards him, and to her surprise he allows it. “The North will never accept a Southron ruler after what the last Targaryen’s had done.” 

He furrows, meeting her distance half way, and Sansa fears she may flinch, run and cower behind Brienne. But she thinks of Robb, of Arya, father, mother, and Jon. She thinks of Bran and Rickon and their innocence. And so she stays rooted, defiant, meets his intense gaze with nothing less but the same vigor. 

He is a breadth away, and Sansa notes he smells of sea salt and smoke, like an ocean mended with fire. And his eyes, she finds them in a pitiful glare, as deep as night and still she can clearly see the deep violet - a lovely shade that burrows at her limbs. 

At least the songs had been truthful of a Targaryens alluring glow, a warning she heeds. 

Daemon Targaryen maintains the power of house Targaryen, much to Sansa’s disappointment, unknowing and somehow remains compliant, welcoming in his own way, and invitation to speak and be heard. He is ardent, a prowess that none of her informants could have warned her of. And she thinks, examining his height and thick build, that he is just as the tales described. 

It churns in her stomach, chest threatening to shatter, bones wilting away as she consistently reminds herself of the game. The match that had been set and the thin lines of power and death that have been drawn. 

“I am not my father,” He murmurs, “However, I understand. My brother made costly decisions, my father burned those who defied - no, said the wrong thing, walked the wrong way, and in his insanity thought himself betrayed.” Daemon scans her features, roams the length of her body, lingers on her neck and hair. “I ask you not to judge a son of his fathers sins.” 

Sansa sighs, “My people have been through wars they had no interest in, all for the sake of your family. The North remembers - ice remembers.” Sansa plucks at her gown. “I have no say in their will, I merely protect it.”

“House Targaryen has allied with house Stark since Aegon’s conquest.The last King in the North, Torrhen Stark-” 

“The last King in the North had been Robb Stark,” Sansa clips, unable to stop herself, her wound prodded and bled. “As was declared by the North.” 

“Ah,” he licks his lips, a pregnant pause thickening all the tension in the throne room. “My apologies, I meant no offense. I merely meant that our houses have made peace throughout Westeros for centuries. It’d be a shame if that were put to an end.” 

“It was put to an end when Aerys Targaryen burnt my grandfather and uncle alive; when Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped my aunt.”

Sansa’s inconsolable proclamation weeds the air of it’s stigma, those who watch on still as rock. Daemon shifts, and in the distance a roar as loud as war rings throughout the keep. Sansa recoils, the call of blood pulling at her ears. Dragons? Had that been the call of his children?

“You will not listen to reason?” 

“I have given a reasonable trade.” Sansa warns. “With Tommen Lannister on the throne, the people remain loyal out of fear. Our houses have one interest that remains the same; the death of house Lannister. I offer our army, our swords in support. But that means, your Grace, we remain independent.” 

Tyrion bristles, Sansa notices from the corner of her eye. Though she cannot worry for him, cannot make his troubles her own. Sansa was long past that, and refused to mend any tears house Lannister - his family had done towards her own. To her. 

“Tyrion,” Daemon turns to his hand, as if to meet his eyes, though is swift in his return to hers. “Prepare a room for Lady Sansa,” Her heart stutters, her entire being cornered - again she thinks. Again, again, again. 

“Port her ships under my guard.” 

Sansa’s eyes widen. Her body is cold, barren, goose flesh climbs her and swallows her whole. 

“Am I...am I your prisoner?” Inwardly, she scolds herself. Anger in her weakness; fury that she had such a small voice, small intimidation. 

Daemon turns to leave, mouth curled in a smirk, “Not yet.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and giving this story of mine a chance! I appreciate it very much - comments and kudo's are always gratefully accepted!


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